


Dream All the Dreams of a Brighter Tomorrow

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pre-Stanford, Sam/Dean Mini-Bang Challenge 2014, Stanford Era, au elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean spend the summer after Sam's graduation in a small town in Virginia, while John is away on a hunt. Sam is recuperating from a concussion, Dean worries too much, but there's whiskey, books, hours spend together on the couch in front of the TV, and the beach is just a short drive away. Things are good and they get even better when Sam kisses Dean one afternoon and they start to explore their feelings for each other. But Sam knows that the summer won't last forever and he'll eventually have to tell Dean that he's leaving for Stanford. All he can do is hope that it's not going to ruin the relationship he and Dean are slowly building, and that they'll find a way to make the new situation work for both of them. (Sam is 18) [reposted, first posted 6/11/2014]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream All the Dreams of a Brighter Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful [art](http://teashopmuses.livejournal.com/83567.html) by [selecasharp](http://selecasharp.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Title taken from Waylon Jennings's song "Christina".

When Sam graduates from high school, they've only been in town for a couple of months and he knows few of his fellow classmates by name. The school isn't huge, by any means, but he'd stopped trying to get to know everyone by the time he started attending middle school. It's okay, though, because to most classmates throughout the years he's never been more than 'the new kid' anyway. He likes to think of it as mutual disinterest in each other, but Dean always snorts when Sam uses the phrase and tells him he's antisocial. Sam thinks that's pretty rich coming from a guy who might flirt with half of the girls in whatever town they're in, but certainly doesn't make friends either.

"I have you for that, Sammy," Dean teases whenever Sam points that out, and Sam doesn't admit that he's secretly pleased by that. It's probably pathetic, but Dean has always been his best friend, the only constant in his life apart from their dad.

The morning of his graduation dawns bright and sunny, and Sam only attends the ceremony because it feels like something he should do.

John and Dean both come along, and Dean whistles and cheers loudly enough to make up for the otherwise reserved clapping Sam gets when his name is called out.

He trudges up the stairs, the gown getting caught between his too-long legs, and accepts the certificate and handshake. It's not until his eyes find Dean's in the crowd and Dean holds up both thumbs, that Sam grins and flips the tassel of his cap to the other side.

+

John stays long enough to congratulate him with a clap on the shoulder and a proud smile, slipping Sam some cash to celebrate, before he excuses himself. There's a job at the other side of the state – there always is.

Sam gets a few, not very heartfelt invitations to parties from students he had classes with, but Sam turns them all down.

"I got plans," he says, pointing vaguely at Dean without explaining. They probably have no idea who Dean even is, other than the guy who waited for Sam after school almost every day. Sam sometimes wonders what his classmates thought when they saw him getting in the car with Dean, what conclusions they drew. His brother, a friend, or maybe his boyfriend. The latter sends a thrill through Sam, which he tries to dismiss.

"You know, you could go if you wanted to," Dean says as they walk to the parking lot, his arm slung easily around Sam's shoulder.

Sam snorts. "And what? Hang out with people I don't even know, who will probably get really drunk and become nostalgic about the wonderful years they spent together, which I wasn't a part of? No thanks." He pauses at the passenger side of the Impala, looking at Dean over the car. "Plus, you promised me beer and pizza, man."

Dean gives him a grin. "You're too bitter for an eighteen-year-old, Sammy," he says, and despite his expression Sam detects a note of sadness in his voice.

"Yeah, well," Sam says, and shrugs. It's probably true, but he's seen people die horrible deaths and he's killed monsters. It's hard not to be a little bitter about their lives.

He gets in the car without another word, and a moment later the Impala dips when Dean gets in, too.

+

The back porch of the house they're renting creaks under their weight, wood starting to rot, and the porch swing looks even older than the house. It squeaks when they sit on it, and the chains are rusty, but at least it's big enough for both Sam and Dean to sit comfortably.

They sprawl out on it, Dean keeping one foot on the ground to rock them back and forth. By the time the sun sets, they're both a bit tipsy, stomachs full with food and beer.

Dean produces a sloppily rolled joint from somewhere, grinning at Sam. "Happy graduation, Sammy," he drawls out, all lazy and slow.

"That my present?" Sam asks, and Dean shrugs.

"Hmm, sure."

Sam smiles and takes the joint from Dean, letting it rest between his lips as he holds his hand out for a lighter. Dean shifts and pulls out the small silver Zippo he'd bought at a gas station four months ago, but he doesn't hand it to Sam. Instead he bats Sam's hand away while leaning in, and lights the joint himself.

The gesture is oddly intimate and Sam thinks he should crack a joke, tease Dean, but he shrugs it off in favor of taking a pull from the joint, letting the smoke burn down into his lungs. He exhales slowly as he passes the joint over to Dean, and he watches him take a hit. The way Dean sucks his cheeks in as he inhales, body sprawled and relaxed, he looks like a model out of some magazine, cool and untouchable. Sam feels a flare of possession, and it might be twisted, but Dean is the only thing in his life that has ever been just his and Sam likes it that way. There are sides of Dean, things about Dean, that nobody gets to see but him, not even their dad, and Sam cherishes that knowledge.

They pass the joint back and forth until it's gone. Dean flicks the stub into his empty beer bottle and pulls out another two bottles from a dishpan filled with cold water and ice, sitting next to the swing. He uncaps them both and hands one to Sam.

"When is Dad coming back?" Sam asks, rolling the cool neck of the bottle against his lip without taking a sip. He feels boneless and buzzed, like he could either stay up all night with Dean or fall asleep in the next couple of minutes.

"Huh?"

Sam waves his hand around lazily, grinning at the way his brain needs a moment to catch up. "'Cause we better clean up or he'll kill us," he says.

Dean snorts. "Not tonight. Don't worry about it, Sammy," he says, and Sam thinks it's unfair that Dean doesn't seem particularly affected by the marijuana at all. He sighs, tips the bottle back a little and lets the cool beer run down his throat.

When he turns his head, Dean is looking at him, expression all soft and fond in a way it rarely is. It makes something in Sam's stomach flutter.

"What?" he asks, and expects Dean to make some joke about how Sam looks, brush off whatever he might be feeling right now.

Dean lifts his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug. "You're all grown up now, kiddo," he says, but his tone isn't teasing.

Sam scoffs, but doesn't deny it. He's been grown up for a lot longer than Dean likes to admit. 

Shifting, he slides down until he is pressed up against Dean's side, his cheek against Dean's shoulder. Dean doesn't move, doesn't try to shake him off. Sam lets his eyes slide halfway shut, feeling warm and comfortable, and peers out at the dark backyard. The sun has set by now, blue sky replaced by an almost black one.

"The stars are real pretty tonight," Sam says in something close to a whisper. It's a random thought, a random observation, but he feels the need to share it with Dean anyway.

Dean makes a soft, amused sound, air moving Sam's hair a little. "God, you're a lightweight," he teases, but Sam feels his fingers brush against the back of his neck, familiar and soothing, and decides to let the comment slide.

+

They move a week later.

The town they end up in is even smaller than the one before, some place in Virginia that Sam forgets the name of the second they arrive, and the house John finds for them is tiny and smells of mold and dust. There's the promise that they'll stay for the whole summer though, and that's all that Sam cares about.

One last summer, he thinks, sitting on the rickety, uncomfortable bed in the room he has to share with Dean. The thought makes him feel sadder than he thinks it should.

"This is a dump," Dean says as he walks in with his duffel bag. He doesn't sound too bothered either – they've stayed in much worse places, anyway.

Dean drops the bag down by the bed Sam isn't sitting on and sits down on the mattress, kicking up his feet, boots and all.

Sam lies back and flips onto his stomach, head turned to look at Dean. "There's a theme park not too far from here. It's small, but you know, better than nothing," he starts. "Plus, it's only a two hour drive to the sea."

"Dad has a few jobs lined up for us," Dean replies, toneless.

Sam shrugs, feels the mattress scratch against the skin of his arms. "Yeah, but in between those, if we have some time. Maybe," he says.

Dean breathes out loudly. "Yeah, maybe," he agrees, and it sounds like a 'yes'. It usually is, when Sam is the one asking for something.

+

The first hunt is supposed to be a simple salt and burn, but when it turns out there are two spirits instead of one, it gets complicated. By the time they manage to salt and burn the second body, Sam feels like he's been hit by a truck.

Dean and John are okay, save a few bruises, but Sam has a bleeding lip, a bruise marring his left cheekbone, and what he's pretty sure is a concussion. His head is pounding and his vision swimming, and he makes his dad stop the truck halfway home so he can throw up on the side of the road.

Dean is by his side within moments, fingers combing back his hair while he murmurs words Sam can't make out.

John kneels down next to him when Sam is done, his hand warm and strong on Sam's back. "Is it bad enough that you need a hospital?" he asks, voice serious and concerned.

Sam wants to laugh, say that if their lives were different that wouldn't even be a question. "No," he chokes out, instead, and struggles back into a sitting position. John nods in relief and pushes himself up with his hands on his thighs.

"Okay, let's get you home and in a bed then, Sammy," he says.

"Sam," Sam manages, and John gives him a small smile.

"Sam," he amends, and moves around the car.

Dean slides into the backseat with him, carefully maneuvers Sam until he's lying down, head pillowed in Dean's lap. Sam is too tall, legs bent and dangling off the seat, but Dean's fingers are back in his hair and Sam doesn't want to move. He brings one hand up to rest on Dean's thigh, next to his own face, and curls his fingers into warm denim, concentrating on the way Dean smells like fire and feels like home.

+

Sam is pretty out of it the next day still, and the fact that Dean woke him up every hour during the night hasn't helped his sore mood. He sleeps the day away, only waking up when Dean or John brings him food and painkillers.

On the second day he stays in bed, too, even though he's more alert and his head feels better. Dean brings him soup and crackers, and Sam dozes for hours.

On the third day, Sam wakes up to Dean's face. He's lying on Sam's bed, on top of the blankets, fast asleep. His face is inches away from Sam's on the pillow, and his hand is resting lightly on Sam's between their bodies.

Sam thinks he should be shifting away, but he doesn't move. He watches Dean silently, takes in the way his lips are parted a little and the freckles covering his nose and cheeks. Dean, awake, is crass and cocky, but asleep he looks innocent. It makes Sam's chest ache.

When Dean shifts, lips smacking together, signs of him waking up that Sam has seen a million times, Sam lets his own eyes drift shut, pretending to still be asleep. He's not sure why he does it. Dean clearly instigated the handholding and there's nothing wrong with it anyway. But he doesn't want Dean to catch him looking. Doesn't want Dean to pull away and make a stupid joke about it.

Dean makes a snuffling sound, hand slipping away from Sam's. Sam tries to keep his breathing even and waits for Dean to get up. It doesn't happen right away, and Dean must be lying completely still, _watching Sam_ , and it sends a wave of exhilaration through Sam's body. Finally, the mattress shifts as Dean moves, and then Sam feels a brush of warm, slightly chapped lips against his temple, and then the bruise on his cheek. They linger for a second, and when Dean rolls out of bed, Sam feels like the touch of his mouth stays, like it's burned into his skin.

+

Sam waits a good twenty minutes before he gets up, too, and by then Dean has breakfast ready and laid out on the small kitchen table. It's just scrambled eggs and toast, but Sam's stomach growls hungrily at the sight.

"Where's Dad?" he asks as he slides onto a chair, and Dean hands him a plate heaped with eggs.

"Got a call yesterday. He had to drive up north for a job, outside of Pittsburgh," Dean says, and he sits down across from Sam with two mugs of coffee.

"Are we going to follow him there?"

Dean presses his lips together, almost in a frown, and shakes his head. "You still need to recover," he says. "By the time you're back to 100%, Dad will probably be back anyway. Should be a week, tops."

"I'm feeling better," Sam says, even though he doesn't really want to go to Pittsburgh. He's happy to stay in their tiny house, with just Dean.

Dean shrugs, picking up a fork. "Eat your food," he says, and Sam knows the decision has already been made. It irks him a little, stings that he doesn't get a say in this. It's his health, after all, and sometimes Sam wishes Dean wasn't so overprotective, so damn controlling about all things concerning Sam's well-being.

He sighs, snags a piece of toast from where Dean has stacked them on a plate, and starts to eat.

They don't talk about what happened that morning; Sam doesn't know how to bring it up. He almost feels like it's better to keep keep it to himself, anyway; to remember the touch of Dean's lips without having someone else spoil it for him – even Dean.

+

Two days later, Sam is tired of Dean coddling him. He feels bad about it, because Dean is just trying to take care of him, but his head feels fine and Sam can only be ordered to lie down for so long before he snaps.

To keep himself from blowing up at Dean, he sneaks out to go running when Dean is getting groceries. He isn't gone long, but the Impala is parked in front of the house by the time he gets back, and he finds Dean in the living room, obviously fuming.

"Where the hell did you go?" he snaps, and Sam wipes strands of sweaty hair out of his face.

"Running."

"You have a concussion," Dean points out, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Had," he corrects. "I'm good. I just wanted to get out for a while, is all. I didn't know that wasn't allowed."

The last part is a bit of a stretch, because of course he knew Dean wouldn't be happy if he returned to the house and Sam was gone. Dean seems to know that too.

"You ever thought that I might worry?" he asks, glaring. "That maybe you could at least have left a goddamn note, telling me where you went?"

"It was just a run," Sam protests, and Dean glares, his cheeks flushed with anger.

"I didn't know that. Something could have happened, Sam, or you could have gotten hurt and I wouldn't have known where to look for you!"

"God," Sam groans, running a hand over his face and turning away from Dean. "Sometimes you're worse than Dad, you know that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, sounding affronted. Sam huffs.

"Forget it," he says. "I'm going back out. Not sure yet where, for your information, but if something does happen to me I'm sure you'll manage to find me in a town this size."

His words are dripping with sarcasm, and he ignores the _fuck you_ Dean throws after him, and chooses to slam the door on his way out instead.

+

Sam doesn't really have an aim, and he just wanders around a little for a while. There's not much to do in town, just a few stores here and there, but there's a small liquor store across from the one bakery.

The clerk doesn't even blink at Sam's fake ID when he buys a bottle of cheap whiskey, and Sam grips the brown paper bag in his hand on the walk home, thinking about what to say to Dean.

Back at the house, he finds Dean in the kitchen, preparing a whole stack of sandwiches. Sam watches him silently for a few moments, leaning against the doorjamb. Finally, he clears his throat and waits for Dean to react.

"I'm making lunch," Dean says, sounding indifferent, and Sam sighs.

"Well, I brought dessert," he replies. Dean turns his head, looking at him over his shoulder, and his lips twitch up a little when Sam holds up the bottle of whiskey.

"Dessert, huh?"

Sam shrugs. "Sure," he says and beckons Dean to join him. "Come on, let's eat in the living room. Feels less weird to drink this stuff there than at the kitchen table."

"You're weird," Dean mutters, but he picks up the plate of sandwiches anyway and follows Sam into the living room.

Sam takes a couple of sips from the whiskey, letting it burn down his throat, before handing the bottle to Dean. He picks up a sandwich, watching Dean out of the corner of his eyes, and eats. They don't talk, not until the plate is empty.

"I'm grown up," Sam finally says into the silence between them, and angles his head toward Dean. " _You_ said that."

Dean sniffs, and puts the bottle down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Doesn't mean I have to like it," he replies, voice gruff, like the words don't come out easy.

Sam knows they don't, not for Dean. He has always been Sam's protector, the one to take care of him, as well as his best friend. Sam knows he's having a hard time letting go, accepting that Sam isn't the little kid who needed Dean to hold his hand and coddle him.

But then Sam thinks about waking up a few days ago, the way Dean's lips had felt against his skin, and the way, despite the innocence of the gesture, it hadn't felt innocent at all. Dean is well aware of how much of a grown-up Sam is. It should feel wrong, but instead Sam feels like he's finally starting to understand what they have, starting to see everything this could be.

Dean meets his eyes, and there's hurt there now, helplessness, and Sam gets it. Dean has always loved him too damn much, has depended on the place he has in Sam's life because it's all he's ever had. Sam has stopped needing Dean's protection, and for Dean that means Sam has stopped needing him altogether. It's ridiculous, really, because Sam knows that's not even a possibility – he will always need Dean, always crave his attention, his affection.

"You're an idiot," Sam mumbles, and Dean frowns.

"What?"

Sam huffs and places a hand on Dean's thigh, feels the muscles twitch under his touch, and leans in, kisses Dean. It's chaste, just a brief brush of his lips against Dean's slack ones, and then he rests his forehead against Dean's.

"Sammy," Dean whisper, and Sam's lips tug up into a small smile.

"All grown up," Sam stresses, and pulls away to look Dean in the eyes. "I'm old enough to make this decision."

Dean huffs. "I'm not even sure what this decision is," he admits, and Sam shrugs.

"We'll figure it out," he says, like it's that easy, and then he kisses Dean again before either of them can think about it for too long. It's not chaste this time; he moves his lips against Dean's, until Dean parts his lips a little and kisses him back with a small sigh.

Dean tastes like whiskey and smells like the cheap aftershave he always uses. Sam curls his finger in the soft fabric of Dean's shirt and doesn't let go.

+

Sam thought things would be awkward, after the kiss, but they're not. They watch TV, and Dean makes mac and cheese for dinner, and then he watches some snooker tournament on TV while Sam curls up with a book on the other end of the couch, the sole of one foot pressed against the side of Dean's thigh.

They go to sleep in separate beds, but Sam only lasts for thirty minutes before he pushes himself out of his bed and crawls into Dean's.

"Nightmare," he whispers into Dean's shoulder, because it's something that used to work when he was younger. Dean snorts.

"You weren't even asleep yet, asshole," he murmurs, soft and amused, and Sam grins to himself.

"You can't prove that," he replies, and slides his feet between Dean's.

+

Sam kisses Dean again the next morning after breakfast, just a brief, coffee-flavored press of lips against lips. Dean gives him a small smile, softer than his usual ones, and then starts doing the dishes.

They don't talk about it for the rest of the day – Dean goes grocery shopping, while Sam stays behind and reads. In the afternoon they throw knives, a cork board with circles Dean drew on it serving as a target. It's one of the few things they can do; shooting or handling bigger weapons is out due to the fact that they have neighbors, and sparring is something Dean rules out because he's still worried about Sam's head. Afterward, they make dinner together, then head out to see a movie in the next town over.

When they get ready for bed that night, Sam doesn't even bother getting into his own bed. Dean raises his eyebrows at that, but when Sam kisses him, he kisses back. They both settle down on their sides, lips sliding together, but it's slow and languid, hands staying above the waist the whole time.

They fall asleep without saying more to each other than their names, softly breathed out in between kisses.

+

The next day, Dean starts getting restless. Sam isn't surprised – Dean has never been very good at keeping himself busy; he'll watch some TV, maybe read a little, but he can't sit still and find something to occupy him for hours on end, like Sam can. He'll itch to go out, do something, or to get back on the road. He likes hunting: the chasing, the shooting, the fighting. Being cooped up in the house with Sam like this, in a town where there's nothing to do, isn't Dean's sort of thing.

They're watching TV, _again_ , and Dean is fidgeting next to Sam, tapping his fingers against the armrest of the couch and making small, frustrated noises every so often. Sam isn't particularly interested in what they're watching – some cheesy daytime soap opera that Sam knows Dean is secretly actually a little into – but Dean's restlessness is grating on his nerves. He thinks about saying something, telling Dean to settle down, but he knows it will probably only aggravate Dean further, so he tugs on the hem of Dean's shirt again.

"Hey," he calls out softly, and when Dean turns to face him, he barely has time to ask, "What?" before Sam kisses him. Dean makes a surprised noise, and Sam kisses him a little more firmly, more insistently.

"Sammy," Dean mumbles, and Sam catches Dean's lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before letting go completely, breaking the kiss. He grins and throws his leg over Dean's lap, straddling him. Dean's hands come to rest on his hips, not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either.

Sam wraps his arms around Dean's neck, fingers stroking over short hair at the back, and brings their mouths back together.

They end up sprawled out on the couch, the TV ignored as they make out. It doesn't progress further, but it's not as tame as it was the night before either. Their kisses are deeper, more heated, and their bodies tangled together in a way that Sam can feel the firm press of Dean's erection against his hip, knows Dean can feel his too.

Eventually, they slow down. Dean's hand stroking his back becomes more comforting than arousing, their kisses softer. Dean breaks away, laying his head down inches away from Sam and just looks at him for a few moments, fingers drawing circles onto his skin. His lips are bruised and puffy, cheeks a little flushed and hair messier than he likes – Sam thinks Dean has never looked more beautiful.

It's something he's been aware of for a while, the fact that Dean is attractive. It's hard not to notice when Dean turns heads wherever he goes. Sam isn't sure when simply being aware of Dean's good looks turned into attraction, though; he thinks it was something gradual, something that built over time until it was suddenly glaringly obvious. And it's about a lot more than just Dean's looks; it's that Dean makes him smile even in the most dire situations, that he gets Sam when nobody else does, that he loves Sam unconditionally, always.

Psychologists would probably have a field day with them – the trauma they've been through, their isolated childhoods, their dependency on each other, the fact that nobody can ever really know who they are and what they do. But Sam looks at Dean now and can't help but think that the way he feels about Dean is not the result of how screwed up they are. Dean's place in his life is one of the few things he has that is right, that is good.

He hopes Dean feels the same way, hopes that Dean looks at him and sees something meaningful, something to be cherished rather than condemned. Sam lets out a small breath, moving a little closer until his forehead rests against Dean's chin, his lips.

"You okay?" Dean asks softly, concern in his voice, and Sam nods.

"I'm good," he says. "Just want to stay here for a little while, with you."

"Okay," Dean says quietly. "Okay, Sammy. We can do that."

+

Sam suggests going out that night, simply to offer Dean a chance to get out of the house, blow off some steam.

"There's a bar in town," he says. "We can hang out, meet some people."

Dean pauses, idly flipping through a newspaper that's a few days old, and for a split second Sam thinks he looks hurt, upset, but then he just shrugs. "I'm good. Don't feel like going out."

"Are you sure?" Sam asks, and Dean gives him a look like he wants Sam to drop the topic, like Sam is being an idiot for even suggesting it, and Sam isn't sure why that is.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm sure," he says, and Sam decides to let it slide. If Dean would rather stay in, have a beer with him, he isn't going to complain.

+

Things don't progress much further between them over the next few days. They make out some more and share a bed at night, but otherwise it almost feels like nothing has changed. They go on runs together, once Dean concedes that Sam is doing better, and take a much-needed trip to the nearest laundromat, and the rest of their days are spent hanging out. Sam reads a lot, and Dean cleans his Impala, checks newspapers half-heartedly for possible jobs, and naps on the couch. He cleans all of their weapons until they're spotless and spends so much time throwing knives that he could probably land a job at a circus. Eventually Sam manages to talk him into some light sparring, even though Dean is obviously holding back, more concerned with making sure Sam doesn't hit his head again than with getting the upper hand.

There seems to be an unspoken agreement between them to take things slow, and Sam is glad. He's not sure if Dean has ever been with a guy, but for Sam this is all new. He has never so much as kissed another guy, other than Dean, and he doesn't have _that_ much experience with girls either. He's dated a little, when they stayed in places for longer than a few weeks, fooled around with some girls, but it's never been all the way. It felt wrong to try for more when Sam knew he'd be moving on not soon after. Sam isn't saving himself or whatever bullshit others might call it, he doesn't need his first time to be perfect or romantic, but he wants to at least know the person it's with. He's just wanted it to be more than a quick fuck in the back of a car.

With Dean, things are different and Sam feels a little out of his element. Dean is _Dean_ , he's home and safety and unconditional love. He's also incredibly intimidating.

Sam knows Dean is experienced. He likes to brag about the girls he hooked up with and Sam has heard his fair share of stories about hot bartenders and cute college girls. Dean has probably done stuff Sam hasn't even heard of, given some he's alluded to. The idea of him and Dean actually having sex is both scary and exciting, and Sam can't help but wonder how he could possibly keep up with Dean.

There's also the problem that Dean _thinks_ Sam has more experience than he has. Because Sam is an idiot who, when Dean had made some suggestive comments about what exactly Sam had been up to after he came back from a date with a hickey on his throat a few months ago, hadn't discouraged Dean's assumptions. He'd shrugged and muttered something, avoided Dean's eyes, and Dean had laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with a, "Good for you, Sammy."

If Sam had known how things would turn out between them, he would have been honest. Would have rather endured Dean's mocking about how innocent he is, how _cute_ he is for waiting for the right girl. Now, if things should ever get that far, Sam will have to fess up to the fact that he's a virgin, and he can only hope that Dean will be nice enough not to tease him mercilessly for the lie.

But he tries not to think about those things – tries to enjoy the here and now, the way Dean makes him forget about everything else in the world with his kisses and how he looks at Sam in a way no other person ever has.

+

It's funny how the thing that breaks their little routine, changes things between them, is a call from their dad eight days after he left for the job in Pittsburgh.

Dean picks up, and Sam feels oddly nervous as he watches Dean from his place at the kitchen table, the novel in front of him forgotten.

The call is brief, and Dean doesn't say a lot, mostly just _u-huh's_ and _yes's_. "Sam is better," he says at one point, and "Okay. How much longer do you need?"

He ends the conversation with a short, dutiful, "Yes, sir," and hangs up.

"What's up?" Sam asks, and Dean shrugs.

"Job's not done yet. Something with the cycle of when the thing goes hunting for victims," Dean says, and Sam thinks maybe he should dig a little deeper. Ask what the hell their dad is even hunting, offer to help, but he can't muster up the interest.

"So he'll be gone longer?" he asks instead, and Dean nods.

"Another week, probably."

Sam hasn't actively worried about what would happen once their dad is back, but now that his return is delayed he finds himself feeling relieved. "Okay," he says, and it comes out a little happier than he meant it to.

Dean throws him a little frown, but doesn't comment.

+

The knowledge that their dad will be back is all Sam can think about now. It feels like he's lived in a bubble for the past few days, one where all that existed was kissing Dean and hanging out, enjoying the summer. He hasn't really thought any further than that, for once living in the moment and trying not to think about the future.

John's call reminds him that, even if they have a few more days, things won't be this easy forever. It won't always be just the two of them, and there'll be other things keeping them busy. There's hunting, and their dad, and being on the road again. The summer won't last forever, and after, well, that's something Sam isn't ready to think about yet.

Sam likes how things are right now, with just him and Dean, but he's not stupid enough to think this isn't a short reprieve from their normal lives. Things will change, but Sam hopes it won't mean the end of what they just started. He doesn't want it to be – he wants this to be something real and lasting. And he knows that, in order to make that happen, they will have to talk about what is going on between them. Sam knows he will have to bite the bullet and bring it up, because Dean is a master at not talking about things.

The whiskey bottle he bought days earlier is still three quarters full when Sam retrieves it from the pantry in the kitchen. They only drank a few inches the first day, and Dean has had a bit every now and then since, but never much. Sam is glad for it now, because he isn't quite sure where the conversation he is about to initiate will lead.

He gets two glasses and then calls Dean into the living room.

"We're drinking?" Dean asks when he strolls in, and looks at Sam pouring two fingers of whiskey into each glass.

"Just something to relax us a little," Sam says, and Dean's expression changes, shifts into something blank. He does that, when he thinks something bad is about to happen or he'll have to say or do something he won't like.

"I just think we should talk," Sam adds, and hands Dean one of the glasses. "About us."

"Right," Dean says, but it's not very enthusiastic.

Sam turns to face him on the couch. "Dad will be back here in a few days. We can't just _not_ talk about this before he gets back," he reasons.

Dean runs his free hand over his face, but nods.

"So," Sam starts, but he's not sure what he wants to say. He lifts his glass instead and knocks back the whiskey, coughing a little when it goes down. When he calms his breathing down again, there's a look on Dean's face he can't quite read – fear, maybe, or worry.

"Just say what you need to say," Dean prompts, and Sam frowns.

"What?"

"Look, Sam, I know you. I know how that big brain of yours works and you've probably thought this through a thousand times. So just tell me whatever you've decided."

"I haven't," Sam answers honestly. "Thought this through a thousand times, I mean. The last few days, they just sort of happened. I think maybe I didn't want to think about it too hard, because I was scared it would ruin things, or maybe I just _didn't_ think for once. I'm capable of doing that, you know."

"Okay," Dean says slowly. "But you wanted to talk, so you must have some thoughts _now_."

Sam looks down into his empty glass, and considers pouring himself another drink. He dismisses the idea a split second later, knowing this is something he needs to do sober. There's enough time to get drunk afterward.

"Yeah, I do," he admits. "I think we're two consenting adults, and we started this because it's something we both want. Not because our lives are fucked up or it's convenient. I know what I'm doing, Dean, and I know that this is something I want."

"People probably wouldn't agree with you, on any of that," Dean replies, and Sam shrugs.

"I don't care about other people. I care about what you think and what I think. We're the only two people who matter in this thing."

Dean frowns. "Sammy, it's not that easy."

"Pretend it is," Sam says. "Pretend this is just about you and me."

Dean finally takes a sip of his whiskey, before setting the glass down on the coffee table. "You want to know what I want?" he asks. "How I feel about this? About you?"

"Yes," Sam says, even though a part of him wishes he could say no. He knows there's the possibility he might not like the answer. Dean would never have kissed him if he didn't have feelings for him, but that doesn't translate into wanting this to become more – that's risky and complicated, and Dean has always avoided those things in relationships. And that is what this is about: can they be together, in a relationship, or would it be better to forget about the last few days and move on?

Dean breathes out slowly, loudly. "You're," he starts. "You're _Sam_ , you know? I'm not sure what you want me to say, or how you want me to explain how I feel, because I don't think I can. I'm not you, I'm not _good_ with words. And you're too many things to really narrow it down to a few words, anyway."

He gives Sam a helpless look, and Sam thinks that has to be the most roundabout, perfect way of saying _I love you_ to someone.

"Okay," he says, and hopes Dean understands that he gets it. "What about the future? Is this, you know, serious? Something you want?"

"Yeah, I do," Dean says, and he sounds like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "It's fucked up and I shouldn't, but I _do_."

Sam gives him a smile, knows it's probably huge and cheesy, but he doesn't care. "Good. 'Cause I really do too," he says. They can figure out the rest later.

+

That night in bed, Sam rolls on top of Dean and kisses him. He rolls his hips against Dean experimentally after a few moments of hesitation, and when Dean moans into his mouth, he takes that as all the encouragement he needs.

There's little finesse to Sam's movements, but it feels good – better than good – and he can tell Dean is getting hard through the thin layer of their pajama bottoms. Sam's own cock is hard and leaking pre-come in no time, and he thinks it's probably going to be over for him embarrassingly quickly. But he's eighteen and he's never really had sex, and it's _Dean_.

Dean, who takes Sam's hips in his hands just then and tugs Sam down while he rocks up, and it feels even better than what Sam was doing, the angle making their dicks slide together just right.

"Dean," Sam gasps, their kissing breaking. He feels his balls drawing up already, his whole body buzzing with pleasure.

"Come on," Dean murmurs, and one of his hands slides around to Sam's ass, fingers digging into the flesh there as they thrust against each other.

"Come on, Sammy," he says again, and turns his head, lips brushing over Sam's jaw. He moves his hand, until his fingers are suddenly pressing down against the cleft of Sam's cotton-clad ass, and the touch, the implication, is enough. Sam makes a keening sound and comes.

He buries his face in Dean's neck, shuddering through his orgasm, and Dean is stroking his back, soothingly, as he slowly comes down from the high.

"You good?" he asks, nuzzling Sam's cheek, and Sam nods, body slumped on top of Dean's. He shifts, trying to take some of hisweight off Dean, and it's then that he feels Dean's still hard cock against his hip.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he mumbles, pushing off Dean and glancing between their bodies. "I can, uh..."

He trails off, not sure what to offer. Dean laughs softly, and tugs at Sam's arm.

"It's okay. Come here," he says, and pulls Sam down into a kiss. Sam goes with it, decides Dean is probably the better person to be in charge of this.

Dean rolls them onto their sides, keeping the kissing slow and sweet, and then he pulls away. He shifts back and kicks the sheets down, exposing more of his body.

Sam watches him as he pulls down his pajama bottoms, the elastic snapping into place under his balls. Sam has watched porn, has even caught glimpses of Dean before, but this is different. This is Dean's cock, right there, and he has to bite back a moan at the sight. Dean is big and thick, the head dark and wet, and he's veinier than Sam is.

Sam has never had a cock in his mouth, but he wants to now. He makes a movement to reach for Dean, but Dean stops him.

"Just watch," he murmurs, and then curls his hand around his dick. Sam glances up at his face, and Dean is looking at him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His bottom lip is caught between white teeth, and when he moans, the sound is muffled.

Sam looks back down, to where Dean is now jerking himself off, thrusting into the strokes of his hand. He watches Dean's cock slide through the ring of his hand, disappearing in and out, and he curls his fingers in the sheets to keep himself from touching Dean.

"Fuck, Dean," he whispers, and Dean makes another sound, needy and low. Sam shifts closer to Dean, tipping his head down to watch, and trails the tips of his fingers down Dean's stomach, through the light line of curls leading down from his belly button.

Dean works himself faster, and then his body tenses as he comes, spilling over his hand, a bit of it hitting Sam's clothed hip. Dean lets go of himself, breathing harsh, and he brings his hand up to bury it in Sam's hair, sticky fingers twisting in the tangles of it.

"Holy shit," he mumbles. Sam tilts his head up and meets Dean's lips in a kiss. _Holy shit_ , all right.

+

John comes back on a Monday, six days later. It's raining outside, the first real rainy day they've had all summer, and Sam thinks it's fitting. The mood is weird, tense, and Sam hides out in his and Dean's bedroom with a stack of books. He's run out of novels to read, only has a few that he carries around with him anyway, so he settles on a book on folklore.

Some of the stories sound like tales you tell children, but others are more real, gory details and notes on how to kill the creatures that Sam knows are not made up. It's not the kind of book you'd find in a normal library.

It suddenly feels absurd to Sam to be reading about how to kill monsters, while the rain beating against the window in a steady, quiet pattern. It's too real, yet it also seems utterly unreal, that this is what they do with their lives. Sam is an eighteen-year-old, recent high school graduate, and he's in his first real relationship – unconventional as it is – and he shouldn't have to think about killing things most people don't even know exist.

He sighs, and looks at the bed across the room. Dean's bed; _theirs_. They're not going to share it for a while, maybe never again, and Sam feels a pang in his heart at the thought. He wishes he was with Dean then, alone.

+

With John in the house, Sam and Dean stay apart. They hang out less than they used to before, both of them worried about doing something that will give them away. Sometimes, when they're absolutely sure John is out or asleep, they'll steal a few, quick kisses, but they don't do more than that.

There are a couple of hunts, never more than a day trip away. They're simple cases and John keeps a close eye on him anyway, like he's worried something will happen again, while Dean is all but trying to lock Sam away somewhere, keep him out of harm's way. One concussion and suddenly Sam is being treated like he's not capable of hunting.

It doesn't take long before Sam gets frustrated with the way he is being treated, and with the distance between him and Dean. He gets into a few small fights with John, and some less heated arguments with Dean, and more and more often he retreats to the safety of their bedroom whenever they're at home.

There are only a few weeks of summer left, and Sam feels sick thinking about it.

+

"I got a call from Pastor Jim," John says one morning, when all three of them are actually having breakfast together for once.

"How is he doing?" Sam asks, more just to have something to say than anything else.

"Good. Fine," John replies. "He has a lead on a hunt, up in Idaho. He thinks it might be a demon."

"Demon?" Dean echoes.

John nods, face grim. "He's not sure. But some weird stuff is happening, and I told him we'd check it out as soon as we can."

Sam puts his fork down, not hungry anymore. He's okay with going on another hunt, maybe working off some of their pent-up energy, but Idaho isn't a few hours away like the other hunts. It's at the other side of the country, and if Pastor Jim is calling up John about a job, it's probably not something small and quick either.

"You said we'd stay here for the summer," he says, and John sighs.

"Sam. It's a job and people are dying," he replies. "Do you want me to ignore that just so we can stay here for the rest of the summer?"

Sam licks his lips and gets up. "I'm not really hungry," he mumbles. He's halfway up the stairs when he hears the muffled sound of Dean's voice, saying something to their dad, followed by a short reply.

Sam closes the bedroom door behind him and crawls onto his bed, lying down on his stomach. He tries to keep his mind blank, not to think about packing and hours on the road.

He wakes up with a start when the door creaks open, and he turns his head to watch Dean close the door behind him again.

"Hey," Dean says, offering a small smile.

"Hey," Sam replies, and waits for Dean to tell him to start gathering his things. Instead, though, Dean sits down on the bed with him and rests his hand on Sam's back.

"Dad is going on his own," he says after a moment, and Sam blinks, confused. He turns around and struggles up into a sitting position.

"What?"

Dean shrugs. "I talked to him. Pastor Jim was going to call Caleb as well, anyway, and Dad thinks the two of them can handle things," he says. "Demons aren't exactly our usual forte anyway, so it might be better if you and I stay out of this."

"Seriously?" Sam asks. "Just like that?"

"Well, it took a little convincing," Dean admits, and Sam smiles.

"So, we'll stay here?" he asks. "You and me?"

Dean nods. He glances at the door, before he kisses Sam quickly, and then pats his thigh. "Just promise me to not mope around in here all the time," he says, and Sam laughs. He doesn't think that is going to be a problem.

+

John leaves that afternoon, and Sam waits an hour before he drags Dean to the couch. They go to bed early and don't get out of bed the next day except for bathroom breaks or to get food. It's one of the best days of Sam's life, and he goes to sleep grinning, his face tucked into the hollow of Dean's collarbone.

Dean wakes him up early the next morning. He's already showered and dressed, smelling like soap and coffee.

"What time is it?" Sam mumbles and turns his face into his pillow.

"A little after seven," Dean replies and Sam groans. "Get up, Sammy."

"At seven? No."

"Yes," Dean replies. "Come on, I have plans for us. We're going somewhere."

Sam flips onto his back, throwing one arm over his eyes. "Can't that wait until ten?"

"Come on," Dean coaxes instead of answering the question, and Sam drops his arm and looks up at Dean's excited expression.

He pushes himself up. "Fine," he says. "Just...coffee. Lots of coffee."

"Already brewing," Dean replies, and Sam grumbles under his breath as he gets up.

+

It takes Sam about half of the drive to realize they're heading for the beach, and then he spends the rest of the drive grinning, even though it's still too damn early.

The town Dean drives them to is tiny, and he stops in front of a motel right at the beach.

"We're staying the night?" Sam asks, surprised, considering it's just a two hour drive.

"Yeah. Maybe two or three," Dean says with a shrug. "Figured we needed to get out a little."

Sam smiles. "We did," he agrees. "This is awesome, Dean. Thank you."

Dean looks a little uncomfortable, brushing Sam's gratitude off with another shrug, and Sam decides he'll have to find a different way to show Dean just how much he appreciates the gesture.

+

Despite the motel's beach view, the rooms are pretty much like any other motel room Sam has been in. The furniture is old, the carpet stained, and the maritime decoration cheesy. But there's just one bed, way bigger than the ones in their bedroom, and that alone is worth it.

It's early enough that the beach is pretty empty, just a couple of people taking a stroll with their dogs and a group of what Sam assumes are college kids lazing around in the sand, but they're far enough away that Sam and Dean have some privacy.

They drop the towels they took from the motel's bathroom into a heap, along with a bottle of water Sam found in the backseat of the car, and take off their shirts before running toward the water in their shorts.

Some previous hunts took them to places near the beach, but they rarely ever had the time to enjoy a whole day just hanging around, and Sam loves it. They swim for a while and then spread out on their towels in the sand, and relocate to a shady spot near the end of the beach when it gets too warm.

Dean goes to fetch some lunch around noon, and comes back with fries, cokes, a car magazine and sunscreen. The beach is more crowded now, people from the nearby town enjoying the sunny day, so Sam keeps his hands to himself and just dozes a little, Dean doing the same next to him.

It's nice and relaxing, and Sam has never really been on a vacation, but he thinks that's what it feels like.

Dean eventually gets bored with napping and Sam wakes up when Dean sprinkles sand onto his back. "Ugh," he complains, turning his face to glare up at Dean.

Dean just grins and picks up the magazine, spreading it open on his lap. Sam lies there and watches Dean for a while, the way he flips the pages lazily, and how he chews on his bottom lip when he gets lost in an article. He looks as relaxed as Sam feels, happy.

After a while, Sam turns his attention from Dean to the other people around them. There's a young family nearby, the kids chasing each other up and down the beach while their parents watch. Behind them, a group of three girls is sprawled out in the sun, and Sam bites back a grin when he realizes one of them keeps glancing at Dean.

There's a bunch of younger kids and another family further away, and Sam watches for a bit, taking in the normalcy of the whole situation, the peacefulness. After a while he sits up, knees bent and feet planted in the sand, and grabs the bottle of water they brought with them, taking a few sips.

He offers it to Dean, holding it out, but Dean just glances up and shakes his head.

Sam thinks about giving him a lecture on dehydration, but Dean is old enough to know these things, so he drops it. He puts the bottle down in the sand between their blankets, twisting it around until it's a good two inches in the sand and can't topple over.

Sam heaps sand up around it for a moment, until the bottle is covered halfway, and then abandons his work to scoop up another heap of sand between his feet. He digs deep to get to wet sand and then makes sure he presses it together tightly, so his construction is stable.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks, sounding amused, and Sam glances at him and then back at the heap between his legs. It's high, almost up to Sam's bent knees, and he shrugs.

"Nothing," he mumbles.

Dean snorts and scoots closer on his towel. "Are you building a castle?" he mocks, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"It's just a heap of sand, idiot."

"Sure," Dean replies and twists his body to the side. "One second."

Sam watches him sift through the sand next to his towel, and then Dean holds up a small, white seashell with a triumphant grin. He snatches up a small twig from the sand as well, and pushes it into the very top of Sam's sand heap, before pressing the seashell onto the side of it, so it's facing Sam.

"There you go, Samantha," he teases. "A pretty castle for a pretty princess."

Sam's too used to Dean's teasing to still be bothered by it. "What does that make you?" he asks instead, cocking his head to the side and considering Dean. "Prince Charming?"

Dean licks his lips and smirks. "More like the handsome rogue who comes and steals you away."

"I like rogues better anyway," Sam says with a grin and nudges Dean's foot with his. Dean's smirk shifts into a pleased, wide smile.

+

Sam spends a long time in the shower that evening, because he has sand everywhere. He's washing his hair for the second time, trying to get rid of the grains of sand on his scalp, when Dean pounds against the door.

"Leave some warm water for me," he calls out, and then the door opens with a squeaking sound. "You hear me, Sammy?"

"I have sand everywhere," Sam complains in reply, and hears Dean huff over the rush of the water.

"You think I don't?"

"You have short hair. That's different," Sam replies decisively and tips his head back so the spray hits his scalp, washing out the thick foam he's worked up with his fingers.

For a moment, Sam thinks Dean has given in, since there's no reply, but then the curtain is suddenly pulled away and Sam yelps when a rush of cold air hits him.

"What the hell, Dean?" he snaps, and Dean chuckles.

"Calm down," he says, and steps into the shower. He's naked, and grinning, and Sam is momentarily speechless.

"What are you doing?" he finally manages and prides himself when there's no stutter.

"Taking a shower," Dean replies smoothly. "If you're not gonna get out, you're going to have to share."

"But," Sam starts, but Dean simply manhandles him to the side so they're both under the spray.

Sam looks at Dean, hot water running down his tan skin, and feels himself flush. He's seen Dean naked several times now, shared a bed with him, so this shouldn't be a big deal. But it feels different. There's no safety of sheets, no kisses distracting him, and Dean looks like a damn Greek god, turning Sam's brain to mush.

Dean must notice, because he smirks and kisses Sam's shoulder, before pulling the bottle of shampoo from between the wall and the rod the hose and nozzle are attached to. Sam had wedged it in there so he wouldn't have to bend down and bump his head in the small space.

"Water's not getting any hotter, Sam. Chop, chop," Dean says and turns around so his back is to Sam.

Sam rinses the last suds out of his hair, trying to ignore that Dean is in the shower with him, and then decides this is as clean as he is going to get. At least with Dean right there. He steps out of the shower with a flustered, nervous, "Uh, bye," and slaps his palm against his face the second he steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist.

+

Sam is already sitting on the bed, clad in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, by the time Dean emerges from the bathroom, moving like he doesn't have a care in the world.

He feels a little nervous suddenly; they haven't done a lot yet, but now they're here, in a room with a big bed for them to share.

He doesn't think that Dean plans to have sex. Maybe if it was someone other than Sam, he would, but Sam knows it's not about that. Dean has made it more than clear with his actions that he's okay with taking things slow. But there's the possibility, now, and Sam isn't against it. He's eighteen, of course he wants to have sex. But Dean still doesn't know that Sam hasn't ever been with anyone and Sam isn't sure how to broach the subject, though he knows he can't put it off much longer.

"You okay?" Dean asks, looking at Sam.

"Yeah, great," Sam says, and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. "Listen."

"Yeah?"

Sam pulls his legs up a little, lets his arms rest on his knees. "I have to tell you something," he admits.

Dean presses his lips together and looks Sam up and down, as if he's checking for injuries or other possible signs of distress. He's done this a million times, eyes quickly and efficiently taking in every detail of Sam's body, assuring himself that Sam is okay. Now, it makes Sam shudder, arousal pooling low in his stomach at the familiarity of Dean's eyes on him, knowing Dean knows every part of him in ways nobody else ever will.

"Tell me what?" Dean finally asks, relaxing a little when he determines that Sam isn't hurt.

"Remember a few months ago," Sam starts. "Libby Thomson?"

"Please don't tell me your ex-girlfriend gave you herpes or some shit," Dean groans, and Sam glares.

"Shut up. She wasn't my girlfriend, we just went on a couple of dates," he replies. "And we didn't, you know."

"Didn't what?" Dean asks, dropping his wet towel to the ground and stepping into a fresh pair of boxer-briefs. Sam tries not to stare, not to get distracted.

"We didn't sleep together," he says, flustered.

Dean pauses, looking puzzled. "But you said," he starts, and Sam groans.

"No, you _assumed_ and I didn't correct you," he says. "It was really stupid, okay?"

"Sammy," Dean says, tone somewhere between amused and admonishing.

"We didn't really do much, other than fool around a little," Sam adds. Dean grabs a shirt, pulling it over his head, before joining Sam on the bed. The mattress creaks a little under his added weight, and Sam watches him sit down with crossed legs.

"And you're telling me this now, because?" Dean ask.

"Because I think you should know that, well, that I haven't. Not all the way," Sam says, and waves his hand around. "'Cause...in case. Well, just in case."

Dean's expression gets more serious. "We don't have to, Sam, if that's what you think," he says, and Sam nods.

"I know. But I want to," he says, and snorts. " _Of course_ I do. And I wanted to be honest with you about that, because it's something you should know. It's the kind of stuff you tell each other when you're, you know, what we are."

"Okay," Dean says slowly and nods.

"Do you want to?" Sam asks, suddenly not feeling sure. Dean cups Sam's face in one hand and studies him.

"You know," he starts, tone suddenly amused. "They say if you can't say it, you shouldn't be having sex."

Sam sighs, though he feels a little lighter, Dean's teasing so familiar to him that it eases the tension inside of him. "Do you want to have sex, Dean?" he asks frankly. "With me. Here. 'Cause I want to."

Dean lets out a small, barely audible groan and mumbles, "Fuck, yes," before kissing him.

+

Whatever preconceptions Sam had about sex, they're all pretty much a lie. It's a lot more awkward than porn makes it look, a lot less sexy than the media makes it sound, and too overwhelmingly good for Sam to ever have imagined it.

Dean is incredibly patient with him, sweet in a way that Sam didn't expect him to be in bed. He undresses Sam between unhurried, deep kisses, spreads him out on the bed and proceeds to trail his lips down Sam's body, hands running over naked skin in a way that's more reassuring than arousing. He rearranges Sam's limbs, laughing softly when Sam almost kicks him in the gut, and kisses away Sam's nervousness.

Later, Sam will remember the whole thing in flashes of hazy bliss and anticipation of what else is to come.

The way Dean runs his tongue over one of nipples, playing with it until it's hard and aching, then gently biting down on it and making Sam arch up into the hot mouth, before doing the same to Sam's other nipple. Dean mapping out a wet trail down his sternum, his tummy, that the air cools quickly, leaving behind the memory of his mouth. The way Dean's tongue dips into his belly button, swirling it around and then thrusting in and out in what feels like a promise of what is to come, making Sam gasp. Warm, gentle hands nudging his legs apart, a murmured "You're beautiful, Sammy," soothing the embarrassment Sam feels at the way he is exposed to Dean's gaze. Dean's lips and teeth nipping and kissing the smooth insides of his thighs, sucking a hickey onto his hip. The first touch of Dean's mouth on his dick, tongue licking away the pre-come and then his lips placing a soft kiss to the crown.

Most of all, Sam will remember the first press of Dean's finger inside him, startling and different and weird, the lube cold and slippery.

When it happens, he wonders briefly if that's it, that's what it feels like to let someone inside his body, but then Dean strokes a hand down his side, says, "Relax. Give it a moment." It gets better after that, Dean moving his finger in and out, the intimacy of it making Sam flush all over. The second finger feels a bit more intrusive, yet less strange and when Dean brushes against his prostate, Sam fists his hands in the sheets and bites down on his lip.

"There," Dean murmurs, and rubs his fingers against that spot inside of Sam again, smiling up at him.

By the third finger, Sam is rocking down on them; at first experimentally, and then in earnest. He thinks he could come just like this, from Dean's fingers stretching him wide, a slight burn mingling with intense pleasure.

But then Dean pulls out of Sam, and kisses him with sticky fingers curled in Sam's hair before he nudges Sam onto his stomach.

"It's easier," he promises softly, helping Sam onto his hands and knees. Sam isn't sure how he is going to hold himself up when just Dean opening him up already had him losing his mind, but he trusts Dean to know what he's doing. He listens to the rip of the condom wrapper, the click of the bottle of lube being opened again. Dean places a couple of stray kisses on his back, lips plush and damp.

"Any time you need me to stop, just say it," he whispers, and then Sam feels Dean's cock press against his entrance.

It isn't good at first, the initial penetration more painful than Dean's fingers, and Sam feels his erection flag a little as Dean presses in inch by inch. Dean's cock feels huge inside him, and Sam has the urge to pull away, push Dean back out, but he knows it will get better and he wants this, so much.

Dean takes his time, stopping several times to let Sam adjust, stroking down his sides and whispering encouraging words. "You're doing so good," and "Just breathe, try to push down on me," and, "God, Sam, you feel so fucking incredible."

It's the latter that makes pride bloom in Sam's chest, makes him feel good in a way Dean's reassurances can't – _Dean_ might be intent on making their first time together good for Sam, but knowing he is bringing Dean pleasure, too, that he feels good, is empowering.

When Dean is all the way inside him, he stops, leans over Sam's body and nuzzles his neck, kisses the sensitive skin there. "Okay?" he murmurs, and Sam breathes out slowly, willing his body to relax, and nods. He feels the sting fade away a little, the stretch of Dean inside of him becoming less foreign, less overwhelming. Dean starts moving then, and each slide in becomes easier, better, until Sam forgets all about the first discomfort. He presses his forehead down against the pillow and moans softly on Dean's next thrust, pleasure sparking down his spine. 

Dean fucks him slow and deep, all drawn-out thrusts and gentle hands, words whispered into the heavy silence of the room. Nothing in Sam's life has ever felt this good, this intimate. This startlingly real.

When Dean reaches around, wrapping his hand around Sam's dick and jerking Sam off in rhythm with his thrusts, Sam spills over his hand with a groan. Dean fucks him through it and comes moments later, lips pressed to the back of Sam's neck. They rest in a sweaty, sticky tangle of limbs for a little while, their breathing harsh in the quiet room.

Sam's heart is still going a mile a minute when Dean pulls out and rolls off him. He lies down next to Sam, and Sam turns his head to face him, finding Dean smiling at him. His hand is on Sam's back, fingertips ghosting over skin and Sam hums happily.

They don't talk, not for a while, just lie together and share small, lazy kisses.

+

They sleep in late the morning after. When Sam wakes up the room is bright with sunlight and he's curled up against Dean's side, nose smushed against Dean's shoulder. Dean is on his stomach, sprawled out, but the bed is big enough for Sam not to feel crowded.

He shifts away so he can breathe properly, and grimaces when he realizes the corner of his mouth is wet with drool. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Sam pushes the sheet down a little with his other hand, using his foot to pull it further down, because he's too hot under it.

A hand on his hip stills him and Dean looks at him through barely open eyes. "Go back to sleep, Sammy," he mumbles.

"Sorry," Sam says in a whisper, and tries not to jostle Dean as he sits up carefully.

"Sam," Dean groans.

"I'm just going to close the curtains," Sam replies, and stumbles out of bed. He feels a bit sore, tender, but it's not an entirely uncomfortable feeling, and he smiles as he goes to pull the curtains close, the room getting considerably darker.

He makes a stop in the bathroom to take a piss, splash some water into his face, before he returns to their bed. Once there, Dean pulls him close before Sam is even fully settled in and Sam goes with it. He falls back asleep easily.

The second time they wake up, Dean gets up to fetch them something for breakfast, telling Sam to stay in bed because he has every intention of crawling right back into it the moment he returns.

They have breakfast in bed, and Sam has barely finished his coffee before Dean starts trailing kisses up his neck, hand palming his side. Sam angles his head to the side and catches Dean's lips in a kiss.

They end up on their sides, Sam's arms wrapped around Dean's neck. Dean nuzzles his chin while he slides a finger down the cleft of Sam's ass, pressing gently against his hole.

"You okay? Sore?" he asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"I'm good," he replies, drawing one knee up to give Dean better access.

"Yeah?" Dean mumbles, kissing the corner of his lips. "You wanna?"

Sam just nods, and hitches his leg even higher when Dean rolls him onto his back. It's a little faster this time, not as drawn out, Sam's legs wrapped around Dean's waist as Dean fucks him, and it's just as damn good.

They take a nap afterward, and then finally get up when Sam's stomach gurgles loudly.

+

They stay for three days.

The morning they leave, they get up early, hours before checkout. Dean fucks him in the shower, and it feels almost desperate, his mouth pressed to Sam's shoulder in a wet imitation of a kiss. Afterward, they pack their things, and Dean drags Sam to the ocean one final time.

It's early enough that the beach is almost empty. The sky is overcast today and there's a light fog hanging in the air, rolling in from the sea, the water looking gray and dangerous.

They sit on the damp sand, and Dean is quiet, looking out at the sea. The light, happy mood from the days before is gone and there's an expression on Dean's face that Sam can't place, but it makes his stomach roll unpleasantly.

They're both silent for a while, minutes dragging on endlessly. Sam replays the night before in his head, trying to figure out if something happened, if he had said something wrong.

Finally, he licks his lips and squirms uncomfortably in the hard, cool sand. "Dean?" he prompts.

Dean sighs, eyes still fixed firmly ahead. "I know you're leaving," he says, voice soft, and Sam feels like his world comes to a sudden halt.

"What?"

Dean tilts his head a little, looking at Sam. "Stanford."

Sam sucks in a breath, and there it is, the one thing he's been trying not to think about all summer, has pushed to the back of his mind and firmly locked away. "How'd you find out?" he whispers, and Dean shrugs.

"I found the acceptance letter weeks ago," he admits. Sam pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead on top of them, his head spinning.

Months ago, it had been all he could think about, and he'd wanted it so badly – to get out, away from the life they were living. College was his chance at normalcy, at a real future. But the elation he'd felt when the acceptance letter arrived hadn't lasted long; he'd been sitting across from Dean at dinner that night, listening to Dean ramble on about fine-tuning the Impala, looking so happy and carefree, and suddenly all he'd wanted to do was run up to their room and rip the letter apart. But he hadn't, and he'd known he never would. He'd made up his mind to leave long before the letter arrived, and even if the idea of leaving Dean hurt more than anything in his life ever had he'd known he would still go.

Now, Sam squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the burn of tears, and tries so hard to keep his breathing under control, to stay calm.

"Sam," Dean murmurs, and his hand comes to rest of Sam's back, warm and strong. "Sammy, come on."

Sam doesn't answer, just shakes his head, and Dean's hand slides around his waist, pushing and prodding until Sam uncurls his body. He lets himself be pulled into Dean's arms and buries his face in Dean's neck.

"It's okay. I always knew you'd leave eventually," Dean says softly, his hand running down Sam's back. Sam feels the first tear escape, and he lets it happen, digging his fingers into Dean's waist.

Dean holds him as he cries, not saying another word, and Sam feels like his world is crumbling around him, knowing it's his own fault.

+

Sam expects Dean to pull away after that, but he doesn't. Instead, they barely seem to spend a minute apart, always touching and kissing, until it inevitably turns into something more. The sex is intense – rushed and needy, Dean fucking him hard and fast against any surface they can find.

Even when John returns, they manage to find time to sneak away, stealing kisses and quick fucks that leave them bruised and breathless.

And when they talk, it's about anything but what lies ahead. Stanford is carefully avoided, circled around but never talked about. Sam appreciates it more than Dean probably knows.

+

Sam waits until the last possible moment to tell their dad he's going to college, his bags already packed and ready.

Unsurprisingly, the conversation turns sour quickly, and they end up standing in the middle of the kitchen, yelling at each other. It ends with Sam voicing every last complaint he's ever had about their lives, throwing accusations at their dad, until John gets quiet, stoic.

"If you feel you have to leave, leave," he finally says, voice cold and hard. "But that's it, Sam. Don't think you can come back."

"Fine," Sam exclaims, throwing his hands up. "Don't think I will."

He turns and storms out, brushing past Dean, who has been silently standing in the doorway the whole time, looking more shaken than Sam can remember ever seeing him. It almost makes him stop, makes him reconsider, but in the end he doesn't.

He doesn't let himself feel any pain until he's safe in his and Dean's bedroom, his shoulders falling as he stares at his backpack. He feels tired and dejected all of a sudden, and he doesn't even turn around when the door opens and then shuts again with a soft snick.

Dean's arms wrap around him moments later, secure and familiar, and he feels a soft brush of warm lips against the back of his neck.

"I'll drive you to the bus station," Dean whispers, and kisses his neck again.

Sam brings his hands up, rests them on top of Dean's, and tries to decide what he wants to say. _It's not about you_ , maybe. _I love you_. Or maybe, if he's honest with himself, _Please ask me to stay_. If Dean did, he would. He'd lock the door, unpack his bags, and crawl into bed with Dean.

"Yeah, okay," he finally settles on, and Dean rests his cheek in the hollow between his shoulder blades. They don't move for a couple of minutes, and then Dean loosens his hold on Sam and Sam steps out of his arms, picks up his backpack and his one duffel bag, and follows Dean out of the room.

+

When the driver of the Greyhound starts the engine, Sam feels like he can't breathe. He looks out the window, but Dean isn't there anymore, and as the bus pulls out of the station, Sam is pretty sure he can feel his heart breaking into tiny pieces.

+

College isn't what Sam was expecting.

He lives in a hall with 37 other freshmen, and he can practically feel their buzz of excitement the moment he steps into his assigned hall of residence. There are parties and mixers and outings. His roommate is nice, the dorm better than Sam expected, and his first impression of his classes is all-around positive.

Sam is utterly, completely miserable.

Most nights, he doesn't sleep for more than a handful of hours, if at all. He tosses and turns and stares at the glowing numbers of his clock, waiting for morning to come. In class, he takes diligent notes and he spends hours in the library studying, but it doesn't leave him pleased and proud the way it did before in school. The first time he gets a test back and there's a big, red _A_ written on it, he feels nothing.

He talks to people, to other students in his classes and to his roommate, but there's nothing there. No connection, no desire to get to know any of them better. He goes out sometimes, but more because he feels like he should, and after the first few weeks he starts to turn down invitations to parties or coffee. He feels cold, sudden dread settle in his stomach the few times girls try to flirt with him.

Sam keeps his cell phone with him at all times, makes sure it's charged just in case. In case Dean wants to talk, or in case something bad happens to either him or their dad. He's never really thought about how scary it would be not to know where Dean and John are, whether they're safe.

Dean is on the forefront of his mind all the time. Sam wonders what he's doing, where he is, who he's with. When they talk, Sam tries to get Dean to talk as much as possible, just so he can listen to the familiar tone of his voice.

"You really doing okay?" Dean asks almost every time.

"Yeah, I'm great. College is great," Sam will answer without missing a beat, but he can tell Dean never really believes him, and eventually Sam stops trying to make it sound convincing.

+

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Jess, the girl sitting next to him in Psychology 101, asks. They've been sitting next to each other since the beginning of the semester, exchanging small talk, but mostly keeping to themselves. She took Sam by surprise last week when she suggested they go out together some time, and when he'd turned her down as politely as possible, he'd expected never to see her again. Yet, here she is, giving him the same friendly, open smile she always had.

She's cute: tall and blond and smart, and if things were different, Sam thinks she probably would have caught his attention.

"Uh," he starts, and then shakes his head. "No. No girlfriend."

Jess's face falls a little. "I thought, well," she starts, "you didn't even hesitate when you said no last week, so I thought maybe there's someone else."

Sam thinks about what to say for a moment; he doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't want her to think the reason he didn't want to go out with her has anything to do with her. "Boyfriend," he finally says, and instantly feels his heart ache a little just at the thought of Dean.

Dean, miles and miles away, doing god knows what. Without Sam.

"Oh," Jess says and then smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam says with a nod.

"No offense, but you don't look too happy about it."

Sam snorts. "Yeah. He's...he doesn't go to school here," he says. "It's tough."

"I bet," she says, and sighs. "I'm from California and I still miss my family. It's weird, being on your own suddenly."

"Yeah."

"You been together long, you and your boyfriend?" Jess asks, offering him an encouraging smile.

Sam pauses. "It's complicated," he settles on. "It's been him and me all of my life."

Jess reaches out, places her hand on his arm and gives him a squeeze. "Well, I'm sure he'll wait for you then. It's just a few years, right?"

"Right," Sam echoes, and his stomach twists at the lie, wishing it were that simple. Even if they make it through this, if they survive the next few years, what then? They're on two different paths right now, and Sam doesn't know how to get back to the one Dean is on.

+

Halfway through the first semester, Sam wakes up from a nightmare, his chest tight and his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen that he has trouble breathing in. The images from his dream keep replaying in his head; a house that's burning, and Sam is outside, knows Dean is inside, but no matter how much he rattles and kicks the door, it won't budge, and Sam is screaming Dean's name, again and again, but there's no answer.

"Fuck," Sam gasps, and there are hot tears on his cheeks, and he's shaking, clammy with sweat. He switches on a lamp and fumbles for his cell, glad that it's Friday and his roommate Brady is still out.

"'s the middle of the night, Sammy," Dean slurs when he picks up. "Please tell me you're not drunk dialing me."

Sam struggles to suck in a breath, and makes a choked-off, wet sound. "Dean," he manages. "Dean."

"Sam?" Dean says, and immediately sounds more awake. Sam closes his eyes. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Dean is okay, and alive, and perfect.

"Nightmare," Sam whispers, and it's like he's a little kid again, seeking Dean's comfort. He wipes tears off his face angrily, feeling foolish. "Sorry for waking you up."

"Sam," Dean replies, tone a little admonishing. "I can be there in less than 48 hours, okay?"

Sam laughs, sudden and broken. "It was just a stupid dream."

"Yeah, well," Dean replies dismissively. "You want to talk about it while I pack?"

"Dean, seriously. It's okay. I just...wanted to hear your voice, I guess," Sam admits. "You don't need to come here."

Dean is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is tight. "Maybe I want to," he says, and there's a challenge in the way he says it, like he's daring Sam to argue with him.

Sam drops his head, chin tucked against his chest, and smiles. "Yeah, okay. Okay."

+

Dean arrives in Silicon Valley Sunday afternoon, and Sam meets him at his motel, not wanting to see Dean for the first time in a dorm with dozens of other students and his roommate around. He wants Dean to himself, doesn't want to share even a minute of what little time they have together with another person.

It doesn't matter that he has to take a bus and then walk for another twenty minutes to get there. The sight of the Impala alone makes his heart beat faster, makes him feel a surge of happiness he hasn't felt since he arrived at Stanford.

It's the first time they've seen each other since Sam left. Since those glorious weeks this summer where everything had seemed perfect.

Dean texted him his room number, and Sam barely makes it to the door before it's pulled open and there is Dean. It's only been a couple of months, but he looks older – his hair is a bit shorter, and there's a bit of stubble instead of the clean-shaven look Sam is used to, like he hasn't picked up a razor in a day or two. Briefly, he wonders if that's because he likes the way it looks, or if he was just in too much of a hurry to get on the road, get _here_.

Other than that, though, Dean is still Dean. Same broad shoulders, same shit-eating, cocky grin, same fond, appraising look as he takes Sam in.

Sam lets out a sudden, giddy laugh and closes the distance between them, throwing his arms around Dean. Dean hugs him back, holds him tightly, smelling like cheap generic soap, fresh sweat, and Dean.

"Fuck, Sammy," he murmurs, and Sam turns his head, twists and loosens his grip on Dean a little until their lips can meet. He just presses them together for a few moments, firmly, waiting for Dean's reaction and hoping this is still okay, that Dean still wants this. And then Dean makes a small, almost needy, noise and Sam starts kissing him for real, letting their mouths slide together and coaxing Dean's lips apart. Dean digs his fingers into the flesh just above the swell of Sam's ass and angles his head back a little, kissing Sam back with the same intensity.

They don't break apart until there's the sound of an engine, a car getting closer. Dean steps back then and tugs at Sam. His lips are red and shiny with spit, the corners curved up into a soft smile.

"Come on inside," he says, and moves aside so Sam can enter.

The room is the same as all the motel rooms they've been in throughout their lives, but it still feels different. The last time Sam stayed in a motel was with Dean, on their little beach vacation, and Sam feels a pang of longing as he looks around, takes in the tacky decoration and crappy furniture.

Finally, his eyes settle on Dean again and he gives him a small smile. "You're here," he says, and Dean gives him an amused look.

"I am," he agrees, and steps close. He brushes a strand of hair out of Sam's face, studying him and Sam cocks an eyebrow.

"What?"

Dean shakes his head. "You grew another inch. Fucker," he says fondly and Sam's smile stretches wider.

"It's okay. Not everyone can be as tall and manly as me, Dean," he replies, then yelps when Dean pinches his side. "That hurt."

"Well, stop being a brat," Dean says. "Plus, I've never heard you complain about my manliness before. Or my size."

"Hmm," Sam hums, and rests his hands on Dean's waist, pulling him closer. "It's been a while, though. Might have to remind me."

"Oh, that so?" Dean grins and brings his hand up, resting it on the back of Sam's neck and giving him a small tug. "Come here."

They kiss again, and Dean starts walking him backwards until Sam feels the bed pressing against the back of his knees. He pulls Dean with him as he sinks down on it, and he feels a sudden, intense burst of sadness when Dean settles on top of him, at the familiarity of Dean's weight pressing him down into the mattress. He's missed this. Missed it more than he can put into words, and he wishes he could disappear into Dean and never come back. Never let go of this again.

Dean rolls his hips down against Sam's, and Sam feels the press of his half-hard cock through the layers of jeans and arches up.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean groans, kissing a wet line up Sam's jaw. His hands find Sam's hip, fingers pressing in, holding him firmly. "Want you so damn much."

Sam curls the fingers of one hand into the short hair at the back of Dean's head and presses the other into the middle of his back, feeling the heat of Dean's skin through the shirt. He grinds up into Dean as much as Dean's hold lets him and makes a frustrated sound, because it's not enough. He wants to feel Dean everywhere, around him, in him. Wants to touch his skin and suck his cock and kiss him until they both can't breathe.

"Shh," Dean murmurs into the cut of his jaw. "I got you. We got time, Sammy."

 _Not enough_ , Sam thinks, and stops when another thought hits him. "What about Dad?" he asks, and Dean halts, pushes up onto his elbows. He looks down at Sam, lips pressed together and brow crinkled in confusion. It makes him look all of five years old, and Sam bites back a smile.

"What about him?"

"He isn't with you, right?" Sam asks, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"No, yeah. He's in the bathroom right now, Sammy, so we gotta be real quick," he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"I just meant," Sam starts, not sure what to say, and shrugs. "Just...does he know you're here? Is he close by?"

Dean sighs and pulls away, rolling off Sam. He settles down next to him, still close, their legs tangled, and runs a hand over his face. "We haven't really been hunting together for a while," he finally says, sounding tired and gruff.

"Oh," Sam says. "What have you been doing then?"

"Still hunting, just...not with him."

Sam's stomach drops at that, alarm bells going off in his head. "Dean," he starts, and there's fear in his voice.

"Don't worry, okay?" Dean says, the look on his face is enough to shut Sam up. "I know how to be safe. And when a job requires backup, I hook up with other hunters. It's no big deal."

Sam wants to protest, wants to tell Dean that he should always have backup because you never know how a case might turn out. And he needs Dean safe, or as safe as a hunter can be.

"Sam, don't," Dean admonishes and pushes a strand of hair out of Sam's face, tucking it behind his ear.

Sam presses his lips together, bites the words back and finally huffs. "Fine," he mutters. "Am I at least allowed to ask why you and Dad split up?"

"It's complicated."

"Dean."

Dean sighs and looks down at the small space between their bodies. He smooths his hand down Sam's waist, slides his fingers under the hem of his shirt and trails them over the skin there. "Things got kinda tense," he finally says.

"Because of me," Sam guesses, because it's always about him. Dean has never questioned their lives like Sam has, has always seen a purpose in what they did. Sam thinks it's because Dean knew their mom, lost an integral part of his life just like their dad had. Sam lost the chance to have a mother that night of the fire, but he doesn't know what it feels like to lose someone you love so dearly. Dean, though, understands the hurt John feels, the thirst for revenge, in a way Sam never has, and he's always followed orders without protest. The only times they ever _really_ fought was because of Sam, Dean torn between them.

When Sam was a moody teenager, he used to feel betrayed by Dean, like Dean was doing something wrong by not seeing things his way, being on his side. Now, Sam wishes more than anything that things could have been different for Dean, easier.

"It's not your fault," Dean says, like he knows what Sam is thinking. "It's just...there are some things we didn't agree on, Dad and I. And things got a bit too much, so we decided to take some time apart before it got bad."

"I'm sorry."

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, eyes soft and hurt, and Sam shifts closer to brush their lips together.

"I am," he says. "I never wanted to make things harder for you, Dean."

"It's all good," Dean says, and his breath fans over Sam's lips. "Might even be a good thing, me doing my own thing for a while."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, and kisses Dean again.

"Hmm, yeah," Dean says against his lips. He tugs him closer until they're lying flushed together, sharing soft, open-mouthed kisses.

"Hey," Dean finally mumbles between kisses, voice low and gruff. "Speaking of making things hard for me."

Sam lets out a sound that's half groan and half laugh, and pulls away. "Oh god, that was possibly the worst pun ever," he says. "How did you ever get anyone to sleep with you?"

Dean just grins and slides his hand down Sam's ass, squeezing it. "You tell me, Sammy," he teases. "'Cause it sure worked on you."

Sam scowls. "Can't remember why."

"Oh no?" Dean murmurs, and runs his hand down the back of his thigh, pulling his leg over his. He kisses Sam again, soft and teasing, and he rocks their hips together. "Let's see if I can jog your memory."

"Yeah, let's," Sam agrees easily, and grins at Dean.

+

The thing about dorm life is that there isn't a lot of privacy. Having a roommate and communal showers means that Sam hasn't done much in the last few months. Sometimes, when the showers were empty, he jerked off, quick and efficient. On the occasional night when he knew Brady wouldn't be coming home, he drew things out a little, using his fingers on himself and imaging that it was Dean. It didn't happen often though, because Sam had been too worried about getting caught: someone walking in on him jerking off would be embarrassing, but walking in on him fingering himself was just asking for trouble. So Sam's sex life has been pretty much nonexistent.

Dean seems to be able to tell and he drags the foreplay out the first round, getting Sam good and ready. He fingers him open slowly, first one, then two fingers dripping with lube and stretching him until Sam feels completely relaxed. And then, instead of adding a third like Sam thought he would, he rolls Sam onto his stomach and slides between his spread legs, adding his tongue to where his fingers are sliding in and out. It's wet and hot, and Sam makes a keening noise and fists the sheets.

"Oh my god," he moans and pushes his ass back into Dean's face, unable to stop himself despite the fact that he can feel his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Dean lets out a chuckle and it reverberates against Sam's hole, sending shivers up his spine.

"Dean," he gasps, and Dean pulls his fingers free, spreads Sam's ass apart and keeps fucking him with his tongue, even dirtier, sloppier than before. He sucks on Sam's hole, and then licks into him again, and Sam stops caring about the noises he's making, the way he's trying to fuck himself on Dean's tongue, because it's too fucking good.

He can feel his orgasm building all too quickly, but Dean doesn't stop when Sam warns him, just squeezes the globes of Sam's ass in his hands and pushes his tongue into Sam again. Sam comes with a yelp, face buried in the pillows. Dean slows down a little then, soft kisses and licks against his hole as Sam shakes through the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hands kneading Sam's ass in what Sam hazily muses is supposed to be calming.

"Holy fuck," Sam finally mumbles, feeling boneless and sated, and Dean pulls back a little and laughs.

"Good?" he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the small of Sam's back. He moves higher, trails lips over Sam's skin, until he's lying half on and half next to him, pressing him down. One of his legs is still between Sam's sprawled ones and his hard dick is pressed against the cleft of Sam's ass, his arms coming around Sam and holding him close, tugging at Sam until they're lying more on their sides, Dean's body curled against his.

"Never done that before," Sam mumbles, and Dean hums, shifts and his cock slides between Sam's cheeks. Sam pushes back into it, stomach twisting with sudden anticipation and arousal.

"Thought you might like it," Dean says and kisses his neck.

"Hmm, I did."

"Good," Dean whispers against his skin and thrusts slowly against Sam. "Wanna fuck you."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, and cranes his head back. "Please."

Dean lifts his head a little and catches Sam's lips in a hard kiss, his hand trailing down Sam's body, fingers sliding through wet come until they curl around Sam's soft cock. He strokes him in long, unhurried moves, and Sam moans against his lips, not sure whether to push into Dean's hand or back against his dick. He can almost feel his blood rushing south again, cock hardening in Dean's hand.

He breaks their kiss and digs his fingers into Dean's forearm. "Dean," he moans. "Please. Please."

"Yeah, okay. Just one second," Dean replies softly, and lets go of Sam to retrieve the bottle of lube he dropped on the bed earlier. Sam shifts onto his back, getting comfortable, as he watches Dean cover three of his fingers with slick.

Dean positions himself between Sam's legs and leans down for a kiss, fingers seeking out Sam's entrance. He's open and wet enough from before that Dean's fingers slide in easily, and Sam moans into Dean's mouth, spreading his legs further. He plants one foot firmly on the bed, and screws down on Dean's fingers, wanting him deeper, more.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean pants and twists his fingers inside of Sam, pressing right against his prostate, and Sam is pretty sure he's going to explode of Dean doesn't get in him fast.

"Come on," he urges. "Ready. 'm ready, Dean."

"'kay," Dean says and presses another kiss to Sam's lips before pulling back. His fingers disappear and Sam bites back the disappointed noise that threatens to come out.

"Condom," Dean mutters, and looks around, hand patting the rumpled sheets until he finds what he's looking for. He holds up the condom triumphantly and then tears the package open, rolling the rubber down his dick. Sam watches, Dean's cock big and flushed under the translucent shine of the condom and it's a goddamn pretty sight. He's missed this, the sex, the intimacy, the way everything narrows down to just Dean when they're like this.

Dean slides a hand down Sam's side, hoists his leg higher around him and positions himself, meeting Sam's eyes as he starts pushing in. He takes it slow, but doesn't stop until he's buried all the way inside of Sam, small beads of sweat pearling on his forehead and his cheeks flushed red.

It hurts a little, more than Sam remembers, and he knows it's because he hasn't done this in a while. Knows the pain will fade quickly, and he welcomes the feeling of being full, being stretched by Dean's cock.

"Okay?" Dean murmurs, and Sam nods, digs his heel into Dean's ass and lifts his hips a little, moaning at the way it makes Dean shift inside of him.

"Hang on," Dean says, and he pulls back a little and rocks back inside, small movements at first before he pulls out further, pushes back in harder, faster.

"Like that," Sam encourages, and, "Right there," when Dean hits just the right spot. He reaches up and grips Dean's shoulders, tries to move with him as best as he can, and lets the soft grunts and moans Dean makes wash over him.

He comes with Dean's hand on his dick, working him through it, and Dean buried so far inside of him, Sam thinks, for a second, he should be able to feel him if he pressed his hand to his stomach.

They lie curled together afterward, sticky and sweaty, the air stale. Sam traces patterns on the arm Dean has wrapped around him, and in the murky light of the setting sun filtering in from outside, Sam turns his head and presses his lips to Dean's chin.

"I'm glad you came," he whispers, and Dean tightens his arm around him in reply.

+

Dean hangs around for a couple of days, and Sam skips most of his classes to spend time with him. He knows Dean will leave, and he wants to enjoy this while he can, get as much of Dean as he can and maybe it'll make things easier for a while, get him through until the next time they can be together.

A few times he catches Dean looking at him, studying him, a frown on his face like he knows something is wrong.

On Dean's last night, they go to a bar for a couple of beers, and Sam is glad when Dean chooses a small table in a dark corner, away from the crowd.

"You doing okay, right?" Dean finally asks while sipping his second beer, his foot tapping against Sam's under the table.

Sam meets his eyes and shrugs. "Sure, yeah," he says, even though his stomach churns just thinking about Dean getting in the car and leaving the next morning.

Sam forces a smile onto his face.

"Just...your grades are okay, right?" Dean asks, and Sam almost laughs, because that that's the first thing Dean thinks of.

"My grades are fine. Great even," he assures.

"Do you need money?"

Sam shakes his head. "'m good," he mumbles and twists his bottle around in his hand.

"Sammy."

"I miss you," Sam interjects, and doesn't look up to meet Dean's eyes. "I just...really miss you."

"Sam," Dean starts, and Sam looks up at the tone of his voice. "Sammy. I miss you too, but I'm here now, right? And I'll be back."

"It's not the same," Sam says, and Dean's face falls.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Nothing," Sam says, shaking his head. "That's not what I'm trying to get at. It's just...it's tough. And I'm trying, you know? I wanted this so much, but I'm just not sure anymore. Maybe I made the wrong choice. Maybe I should have stayed with you and Dad."

"Sam, no," Dean says. "You're not going to drop everything and come back."

The words hurt, and Sam pushes his beer aside in frustration. This isn't how he wants the conversation to go. If he's being honest, he wants Dean to have a solution, makes things easier. Either to tell Sam to come back or stay.

"Sam," Dean tries again, voice softer. "Listen to me. You wanted this and I know it's not easy. For either of us. You think I don't miss you? That I want to call you all the damn time and that it drives me crazy that you're not with me, that I don't know what you're up to and that you're doing okay?"

"No, of course not, Dean. I know that."

"You wanted this. You wanted out, Sam."

"But I didn't want to be away from you."

"Well," Dean says with a shrug. "That was part of the deal, and we both knew that. Look, just stick it out. Give it a try. I'm a hunter, Sammy, and if you come back that's the life you're choosing. And I know it's not going to make you happy. Maybe some day, okay? Just please don't do this now, okay? Not without trying to make this work."

Sam looks at Dean across the table, his expression earnest and pleading, and he nods. "I'll try," he says and takes in a breath. "I really miss you, Dean."

"I'll call more. Come around more," Dean promises and kicks him lightly under the table. "Wouldn't exactly be a hardship to see your mug more often."

They look at each other, and Sam offers Dean a small smile. "Okay," he says softly, and hopes it's enough. That he'll make it through the four years, and whatever else happens afterward. For now he has Dean, has the promise they'll see each other more often, and it's a start.

+

Epilogue

The day of Sam's graduation dawns sunny and warm, just like the one four years ago.

Sam is jittery throughout the ceremony, a smile breaking out on his face every time his thoughts drift off. Dean texted him, told him he'd be there, and Sam keeps craning his head back to try and spot him in the crowd.

It's not until he's on stage, eyes searching the people in front of him, that he spots him. And just like four years ago, Sam grins, holding Dean's gaze, as he flips the tassel to the other side.

+

Sam had seen Dean just a few weeks before, but this feels better. Promising.

Sam pulls him into a hug the moment he's close enough and buries his face in Dean's neck, breathing in the smell of his leather jacket.

"Dad isn't here, right?" Sam asks, pulling back, and Dean shakes his head.

"Couldn't make it. Working a job in Minnesota right now."

"Good," Sam murmurs and kisses Dean. The hustle and bustle around them, the chatter of families and friends and excited graduates fades into the background, and Sam feels himself relax.

Dean is the one who pulls away first, hands framing Sam's face as he grins at him. "You look really fucking stupid in your gown."

"Yeah," Sam agrees with a laugh, and Dean pulls Sam down until their foreheads are touching.

"Proud of you, Sammy," he says softly, and Sam kisses him again, chaste and brief.

"Let's get out of here," he suggests.

+

Even after four years of college, Sam doesn't own a lot of things. Life on the road taught him not to hold on to things he doesn't need, and when he'd packed up his apartment over the last few days he'd thrown away a lot of things. What little he had fit in two duffel bags and his backpack, all of which now sat in the corner of the motel room.

Sam stretches out on the bed next to Dean, sheets pooling around his waist, and lets out a happy sigh. They'd had a few beers with dinner earlier, and he still feels pleasantly buzzed, and utterly satisfied.

"So," Dean starts and props himself up on one elbow, eyes traveling down Sam's body in a way that Sam still isn't completely used to even after four years.

"Hmm, so," he echoes and blinks up at Dean lazily.

"What's the plan?" Dean asks, and gestures in the vague direction of where Sam knows his stuff is sitting. "Do I drop you off here again after the summer, or somewhere else..."

He trails off, and Sam knows the third option is being left unsaid on purpose. The past few years, he's spent all but one summer with Dean. They'd hunted, but the jobs Dean had picked were easy, over quickly, and left them with a lot of free time. The last summer, Sam had done an internship, and that, more than anything, has helped Sam realize what he wants to do.

"I got accepted at law school," Sam starts, and Dean gives him a small smile.

"Knew you would."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not going," Sam replies and holds up a hand before Dean can say anything. "It's not me, Dean. The nice corner office and the money and the expensive apartment – that's not what I want. I think, maybe, what I really needed was just to prove to myself that I _could_ do this. That I could have more than the life we had growing up. And I can. But it's not what I want."

"Sam. You want a normal life. You always did."

Sam snorts and sits up, waving his hand between them. "I think this is pretty much the definition of not normal."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and he doesn't sound happy about.

"Dean, you idiot. _This_ is exactly what I want. You and me," Sam stresses. "And if that means life on the road, then I'm okay with that. I'm okay with hunting. I wasn't always before, but things were different then. _I_ changed. And we do a lot of good, we help people. It's...it's a pretty good thing to do with your life, if you ask me."

"It is," Dean says and Sam smiles at him.

"So. You and me and the Impala, what do you say?" he suggests and closes the distance to press a soft kiss to Dean's lips. "And maybe, sometimes, we can take a few days off, go to a beach."

"The beach, huh?"

"Just because we're hunters, doesn't mean we can't have vacations," Sam replies and grins. "Plus, it's sort of a tradition."

"We did that once."

"Whatever," Sam says, and tucks himself in against Dean's side, kissing his neck. "So, that a yes?"

"Yeah," Dean says and runs his fingers through Sam's hair. "For now, let's stick with that plan. There's some stuff we got to figure out, but it sounds good."

"Like?"

Dean pauses and Sam runs a hand up Dean's side, feels the pad of his finger cross over a scar that he knows wasn't there four years ago. There are a few of those, and Sam can't help but wonder if they would be there if he'd been with Dean, but he tries not to linger on those thoughts. They made their choices, and they're here now, together.

"Dad's been acting weird," Dean admits in a soft voice, and Sam hums.

"We'll figure it out," he replies and looks up at Dean. "Right?"

Dean smiles, small and a little crooked, and cups Sam's face in one hand. "Yeah, Sammy. We will."

**the end**


End file.
